His Suitable Bride(27)

How ironic that he should now give this woman the chance to back out when she was the chosen one.

He would also not be making the inevitable speech about not getting involved, about enjoyment without strings. He was filled with a strange sense of liberation. Also, the realisation that his mother had been right, that he had reached an age to settle down—and he counted himself fortunate that he was mature enough to view the situation in a cool-headed manner, to work out the most appropriate partner, thereby eliminating the possibility of failure. It was comforting to know that he could rationalise a relationship in the same way that he could rationalise a spreadsheet.

He wished that he had had that knowledge at his disposal all those years ago when he had leapt into marriage because of that non-existent, illusory and ludicrously overrated misconception called love. He wished that someone had told him then what he knew now, which was that there was no such thing as love. There was common sense, and that, above all else, was the lubrication that kept the wheels of a relationship turning.

Cristina looked at him with absolute conviction and nodded. She couldn’t help but be impressed by the fact that he hadn’t just taken what had been on offer, but had given her the opportunity to change her mind had she so wanted. How many men would have done that?

She half closed her eyes and this time, when his mouth touched hers, it was with devastating tenderness. She wrapped her arms around his neck and moaned very softly as he trailed kisses over her fluttering eyelids and damp cheeks before recapturing her mouth.

‘I think we should continue this in the bedroom, don’t you?’ he asked softly and Cristina sighed in wordless agreement.

Once there, she stared at him in open fascination as he began removing his clothes, and when he looked at her with wry amusement she blushed, but didn’t look away, and nor did he seem in the slightest bit bothered by her absorption.

Only when he was down to his boxer shorts did her nerves begin to kick in and she was overcome with sudden, horrendous shyness.

‘Don’t worry,’ Rafael murmured, oddly touched by the nervous, wary expression on her face. He walked slowly towards her, not wanting to frighten her. He was massively and unashamedly turned on, could feel his erection pushing up against the boxers, but he was going to take his time.

‘I’m not worried.’ Cristina chewed her lip, dragging her eyes away from that bulge, which was both a heady turn-on and a source of fear. ‘Okay, I am. Just a bit. I’m not … I don’t know …’

‘I’ll take care of you,’ Rafael said gently.

Cristina nodded gratefully, and continued staring at him, at his powerful, masculine beauty—the broad, brown shoulders, the narrow, tapering waist, the latent strength in his body that was visible every time he moved. There was something so graceful about him even though he was so impressively built. He was so much more experienced than she was, had had so many lovers. That was a little scary, as was the knowledge that all those lovers would have been as physically perfect as he himself was.

Cristina determined to put that out of her mind and focus instead on the extraordinary and exhilarating fact that he found her attractive.

‘I’ve never actually undressed in front of a man before,’ she confessed.

‘And it turns me on to think that I’m the first,’ Rafael told her truthfully. He would have liked to place her hand firmly on his erection, have her feel him, but he knew that he would have to wait for that, and he was happy to do that. He began undressing her and, as eventually skin touched skin, he was aware of her trembling apprehension.

Through the window, the ever-present London night-light filtered through so that they weren’t in pitch blackness.

He curved his hands to cup her breasts, which were still in the lacy bra that, in the half light, was like a tattoo on her skin. He knew that his breathing was unsteady, his body violently aroused by the lingering disrobing. Rafael had to steel himself against rushing, but it was damned hard taking his time, tracing a lazy outline of her breasts, when he wanted to rip aside that thin barrier of fabric so that he could lose himself in what they so barely contained.

His taste in women had been formed from habit: leggy, rake-thin, exquisite clothes-horses with no spare flesh. They had looked good and had turned heads, but they had not felt like this. This woman’s body proclaimed her femininity, with all its curves and abundance. He ran his hands along her sides where her waist dipped in, giving her an exquisite hour-glass shape, and felt the waistband of her matching underwear. He slowly slipped his fingers under the elasticated waistband and felt her indrawn breath.